Boy in the Road
by buryourburdens
Summary: "Sam Winchester hadn't stopped driving since his brother and Castiel disappeared in a flash of Dick." - When he finds himself in bum-fuck Louisiana, Sam is approached by someone who may be his only chance at coping with his past. (Sam/Alcide crack!slash, M for future chapters, on hiatus indefinitely.)
1. Chapter 1

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

**To my knowledge, this is a brand spankin' new pairing. I scoured the internet trying to find someone else who had done it first, and to no avail. Please let me know if you've got any advice on writing them together. I'm shooting in the dark over here.  
**

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Sam Winchester hadn't stopped driving since his brother and Castiel disappeared in a flash of Dick. The Impala was in working condition after Meg's stunt, or at least decent enough to drive. He'd watched Dean rebuild her enough to know he'd pop out the dents and buff the scratched paint, but that could wait. It all could wait. All Sam needed was to get as far from ground zero as possible, to leave the aching loss rising in his chest amongst the battered and broken vessels of Leviathan. But every familiar city, every highway, had left a trail of memories for him to find. Hunts from his childhood, cross-country drives with Dean, places he and Jess had planned to travel to after graduation. For a moment, Sam would smile fondly, but soon the warmth of nostalgia would fade into the bitter chill of reality. Everyone he had ever loved was dead, and he'd keep driving until the day he was prepared to face that fact.

The first week of mindlessly crossing the country crawled by at a snail's pace. Sam hadn't paid attention to where he was going, hadn't actually looked at a road sign in days, and when he realized he'd only made it so far as Louisiana, his heart dropped. Louisiana wasn't far enough. It held ghosts of his past too difficult to deal with. He had to keep running, but Baby begged to differ and threw off one of her tires just outside Shreveport.

Sam was sitting on the hood of the Impala, a beer in hand and the cooler opened at his feet, when a truck parked behind him on the shoulder. He turned toward the truck as the engine died, watching as the Goliath behind the wheel stepped out of the vehicle. Sam could only imagine what comments Crowley would have made at the guy's expense - it wasn't often you found someone larger than Sam.

The man stepped forward after closing his door, taking a long look at the Impala before speaking. "Kansas, huh?"

"Not for a long time." Sam took a long pull from his beer, dropping the empty bottle back into the cooler. It joined four others, leaving only one buried, unopened, in the quickly melting ice. "It's just an old plate."

The man walked toward the front of the car, his body casting a massive shadow across Sam and the hood. "Yeah. So, saw your tire back the road a bit. Need a spare?"

Sam tucked his chin against his chest, exhaling sharply through a small grin. "Yeah, the trunk stores... other things."

The man rolled up his sleeves as he walked back to the bed of his truck, pulling a jack and a tire from beneath a ladder and a few 2x4s. "Here," he dropped is bounty on the ground at the Impala's passenger side, "it's too big, but it'll get you to Bon Temps just fine."

Sam slid off the hood and wobbled on his feet, the five beers rushing to his head. He grabbed the tire iron from the backseat before sitting near the front axle. "What the Hell is a Bon Temps?" He struggled removing the hub cap, watching the iron and the cap spinning in tandem. The more they spun, the larger his annoyed sneer. He threw the iron to the ground, flinching subtly as it screamed upon hitting the asphalt.

"Move." The man, after grabbing the tire iron, stood over Sam until he scooted back. He made quick work of replacing the tire as Sam reclined in the nearby grass, the overwhelming heat weighing him down. His eyes were half shut, his face relaxed into an almost smile, when the man appeared looming above him with brake dust streaked across his shirt. "It'll be an uneven drive, so take it easy. I'm headed toward Bon Temps if you want to follow me into town, get yourself a tire that fits proper."

Sam leaned up on his elbows, staring at the tall, dark and beastly man hovering above. "I really shouldn't drive. Baby's been through enough today without me wrapping her around a tree. But thanks-" Sam paused, searching for a name he couldn't remember whether he knew.

"Alcide."

"Sam."

"Well, Sam, you're gonna turn left about half a mile up the road. That'll take you straight into Bon Temps, and Delmont's yard is on the right. Can't miss it. Just leave my tire there, tell him I'll be back for it later."

Sam continued staring at Alcide with glazed eyes, the dreamy sort of look a man got when confused. "I'm sorry, but what was your name?"

"Alcide. And sober up fast, kid. Swampland ain't no place for your kind at night."

"My kind? What the Hell does that mean?" Sam sat up, anger radiating off him. He was used to, could even appreciate, the "you must be antiquers" comments when Dean was around. But Dean wasn't around anymore. Another wave of nostalgia crashed over him and turned sour as it receded.

"You're the prep school jock who hasn't worked a day in his life kind. You got lady hands, kid. Can't even change a tire."

"You," Sam got to his feet, standing face to chin with Alcide, "you suck. No, you're all the suck. These hands," he held them at shoulder height, "could squeeze the life out of that tree trunk you call a neck."

Alcide laughed and cuffed Sam on the shoulder, knocking him slightly off balance. "That's real cute and all, but take it easy. You'll hurt yourself." And with that, Alcide turned on a heel and got back in his truck, throwing the jack in the bed on his way. Sam was breathing dust before he knew it, his view of the truck obscured by the cloud the tires kicked up.

"My kind. What a dick." After packing up the cooler, Sam laid across the backseat for a nap. The air inside the Impala was stifling and humid, but it beat the skin-cracking heat outside.

The sun was low in the sky when Sam awoke, his skin damp with sweat and sticking to the leather interior. He peeled himself off the seat and climbed behind the wheel while trying to remember where what's his face ("Seeds, maybe?") said to go. Something about a left turn? He started off down the dusty road, the cool air freezing against his damp forehead, and followed the old signs directing him toward Bon Temps. Bobby had taught him enough about French to recognize it as the town Seeds had mentioned. Sam ran a hand over his face at the thought of his old friend and mentor, his fingers coming to rest in a loose grip on his chin. No, Louisiana definitely wasn't far enough.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea  
**


	2. Chapter 2

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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As it turned out, Sam didn't need to remember Alcide's name. The man was seated in front of the auto yard's office, his feet kicked up on an overturned milk crate. Beside him was a small, squirrel-y man drinking from a brown paper bag. Said small, squirrel-y man let out a loud whoop as the Impala approached, the setting sun glinting brilliantly off her chrome detail. Sam parked the car and walked in on the other mens' conversation.

"-and hot damn, Al, you ain't kiddin'! Fine ass piece of machinery. But don't that kid know nancies ain't s'posed to drive no car like that? That's a man's ride, made fer drinkin' whiskey and chasin' tail."

"Shut your mouth, Delmont, he's about to be a paying customer."

"That ain't make no difference." And then as Sam walked nearer, "Howdy, boy. Al here tells me you're needin' a new tire. Whatcha driving', '68 Impala?"

"'67, actually. She's been rebuilt a few times."

"No shit, huh? C'mon back. We'll find'ya something real nice and quick-like."

Delmont took Sam through the gate separating the yard from the fenced off jungle of junk. The similarities to Bobby's house were making Sam wish he'd just driven off and dealt with the too-big and not-his tire elsewhere.

"Drivin' on 15s?" Delmont lead Sam on a seemingly random path through the stacks of twisted, rusty metal that had once been cars.

"Pretty sure. Haven't bought new ones in years, though. My brother usually handled that."

"Why ain't he handlin' it now? A man should know about his car."

Sam bit his lip as his anger rose, holding it between his teeth until he regained his composure. "He's on a... business trip. Asked me to take care of the car while he was gone."

"Doin' a bang up job, boy. Ah, back there. Pick yer poison." Delmont pointed toward the Great Wall of Tires stacked against the back fence.

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Alcide had moved into the office by the time Sam and Delmont returned, each with a tire under both arms. Delmont laid his beside the Impala, grabbed one of the jacks leaned up against the office exterior, and pounded on the door to grab Alcide's attention. They walked to the car to find Sam already loosening one of the hub caps.

"So your lady hands can actually change a tire, then," Alcide's voice was laced with a deep, growling chuckle.

Sam offered only a blank stare in response before popping off the cap and laying it on the ground.

"Lady hands?" Delmont could hardly speak from laughing. He'd have been upset Alcide had left out such a rich detail if not for having seen Sam's reaction.

Sam stood and tossed his tire iron at Delmont, nearly disappointed the man caught it. "Laugh it up. And they won't change themselves."

As Delmont set about replacing the tires, Sam sat in one of the folding lawn chairs set up against the office. He was almost surprised when Alcide reclaimed his chair and milk crate less than a foot away.

"Monty is a good guy. Has a little blood in his patriotism, so to speak."

"There's a term for that - redneck."

Alcide grinned as he watched his friend work on the Impala. "Welcome to Louisiana. If it's not star-spangled or deep fried, fuck it."

They sat in a comfortable enough silence until Delmont was finishing up the last tire. Alcide took a sidelong glance at Sam, whose gaze was intently focused on his car.

"So what brought you here, anyway? This part of the world ain't real keen on visitors."

"Just driving."

"Running away?"

Sam looked at Alcide for the first time since they had sat down. He picked apart the older man's face, searching for something, anything, that would have made him jump to that all too true conclusion. "Is it still running away when you've got nothing to return to?"

Alcide caught Sam's eyes, saw the years of grief etched into them, and couldn't bear to look any longer. "Sorry I asked. Life can be... unkind. I've seen my fair share of that."

"No, life is a real bitch, and all the time. You ask for a break, you get a blown tire."

Alcide opened his mouth to speak, but Delmont's approaching footsteps snapped his mouth shut. The mechanic dipped his hands into his pockets. "Now, with the service charge and gratuity tax for the tour, that'll be a buck twenty."

"Screw your gratuity tax," Sam said through a baffled grin.

"Still a buck twenty, cash."

Sam dug out his wallet and removed six twenties, passing them to Delmont with some hesitance. "If any of these blow any time soon, we'll have an issue. Your bedside manner sucks, Monty." He exaggerated the man's nickname, drawing out the syllables with a chiding tone.

"They're under my special "get the fuck out of dodge" warranty," Delmont grinned as he pocketed the cash. "Nah, they'll last ya, kid. I ain't no cheat."

"I'll take your word on it." Sam headed back to the Impala, eager to get back on the road and as far from Louisiana as possible. His stomach growled as he slid behind the wheel and he leaned his head back out of the car. "Seeds, where can I find some decent grub?"

"Merlotte's," Alcide called across the yard.

"And where the Hell is that?"

"You'll never find it. I'll take you out there." He could see the distaste on Sam's face and added, "No, seriously, it's in the middle of the damn woods. I got some business out there, anyway." Alcide gave Delmont a quick nod, an unspoken goodbye, before climbing into his truck. Sam followed him out of the yard, through a maze of poorly lit streets, and finally down a winding drive ending in a timber and neon dive bar. It looked promising enough. Alcide parked beside some old yellow sedan, Sam pulling in alongside him. As soon as they walked in, Sam took a seat at the mostly abandoned bar. He was greeted by a scruffy man holding a bottle of tequila.

"Welcome to Merlotte's. New 'round here?"

"Just passing through."

"This is as good a place as any for that. So, what can I get for you?"

"Jager," Sam pulled out his wallet and dropped a few bills on the bar, "and you may as well leave the bottle."

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	3. Chapter 3

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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Sam was about a minute away from taking a nap on the bar top when Alcide sat to his left. The older man grabbed the bottle, filled Sam's glass, and threw back the shot. He pursed him lips against the burn, clicking his tongue off the roof of his mouth as he opened it to speak.

"Wouldn't have taken you as the Jager type."

"We go way back."

Alcide took in Sam's reddened cheeks and the almost empty bottle. "I can see that."

"You don't have to do this, yanno." Sam stole back the bottle and the glass, taking shot number who the fuck has been counting. He saw the mild confusion on Alcide's face before continuing. "Playing tour guide. You don't have to. This isn't my first rodeo, cowboy." Another shot, another step closer to passing out in the back seat of the Impala for the better part of a week.

"They not have common courtesy where you're from?"

"Guess it means different things to different people. Oh, hey, you can play tour guide for one more thing. Need a motel room I can buy with, uh," Sam paused as he leafed through the notes in his wallet, "this much." He handed Alcide the old leather bi-fold. "How much is it?"

Alcide counted what was mostly singles. "Thirty-seven. You won't get anything for less than fifty 'round here."

Sam nodded, his eyes half closed, before pocketing his wallet and gazing around the bar. Time for plan B. "We hunters have a trick, you see. Watch, watch." He stood, uneasily at first, and walked toward a tall red-headed waitress. From the bar, Alcide grinned as the kid did his best to get the waitress to take him home. Sam returned with a smile on his face.

"Any luck?"

"Not a damn bit. 'parently she's will some cop or something. Hell if I know."

"So what's with the shit-eating grin?"

"I'm an optimist or something. Someone in here has to want to take me home. I'm adorable." He gave Alcide puppy dog eyes before bursting out into laughter, leaning against the bar. Alcide took another shot before mumbling in agreement, his eyes flicking toward the hysterical drunk at his side once he realized he'd spoken aloud.

"'scuse me?" Sam regained himself and blinked rapidly, as if he could bat away the implications of what had just been said.

"What?" Alcide furrowed his brows, raising his lip into a sneer. "It's late. I gotta head back to Shreveport."

"It's nine-thirty."

"Goodbye, Sam." Alcide stalked out of Merlotte's and Sam drained the rest of the bottle of liquor before following him outside. He caught up to the older man just before reaching the Impala.

"Hey, Seeds." Alcide turned to face Sam, his face settled into a gruff stare.

Now that Sam had the man's attention, he was unsure of what to say next. He wasn't even clear on why he'd run out after the guy in the first place. He took a few tentative steps forward, placing himself mere inches from the taller man, but Alcide held his ground. "I, uh-" A spark of tension caught Sam off guard. Alcide has bitten his lip, and in his inebriation Sam thought he'd like to know what those lips felt like.

Alcide was all too aware of the newly created static and dropped his hands into the pockets of his jeans, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. He could see Sam's thoughts carved in his face, could pick out the confused desire swimming in transient discord. There was an almost pleading look in the kid's eyes, but for what, exactly, was beyond him. His chest tightened as he continued searching Sam's expression.

"We'll come back for your car in the morning."

Sam released the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in and relaxed his shoulders, falling back into a familiar slouch. Alcide opened the passenger door of his truck, shutting if after Sam had climbed in. He pulled out his phone and leaned against the bed, dialing the bar.

_Merlotte's. Sam speaking._

"Sam, it's Alcide. Jager boy is going to leave his car overnight, if it's alright."

_Yeah, of course. What's he drive?_

"A black Impala. It's the only car older than Sook's out here. And thanks."

_Sure thing. 'night._

Alcide slid behind the wheel of his truck and started back toward Shreveport. Sam was fast asleep before they left Bon Temps.

Sam awoke to a large hand on his shoulder, nudging him into consciousness. He yawned and ran a hand over his face before glancing over at the giant touching him.

"It's a lot more comfortable inside. C'mon."

Sam followed Alcide into the house, a two story slice of picture perfect suburbia, but hovered just inside the foyer. He looked around in poorly masked awe. He'd expected a shrine to testosterone - wood paneling, taxidermied animal heads mounted on the walls, rustic furniture carved by men dead for over a century. Rather, he was met with pale beige, potted plants and an almost surgical cleanliness atypical of a bachelor.

Sam was still staring at the decor when Alcide turned around, finding his guess had stopped following him at some point. He poked his head into the foyer and grinned. "See something you like?"

"Uh, yeah. Your house. It's, yanno, pretty awesome. Not what I expected."

"You've only seen one room."

Sam tapped a finger against his temple and smiled, raising one corner of his mouth. "I know stuff. All the stuff."

Alcide walked toward his guest, his eyebrows raised. "Really? You know everything? Enlighten me, please."

"I know Louisiana sucks but I keep getting too drunk to leave. And that you're a frighteningly large man who has a love, or maybe just an intense like, or trying to be normal... oh, and that you think I'm adorable."

"Most grown men wouldn't have admitted to that."

"Most grown men also wouldn't take home a drifter they've never seen sober."

They exchanged a glance, watery blues tangled in deep brown, that spoke volumes more than either could actually articulate. Sam stepped toward Alcide, and again, until the toes of their boots nearly touched. His movements were slow, shaky from the alcohol. Alcide looked at his guest and extended a hand, resting it on Sam's shoulder before tilting down his head. Sam raised his face to meet Alcide's, his cheek brushing the older man's beard before grazing his lips.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	4. Chapter 4

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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Sam woke to a headache and a stomach twisted in knots. His memory of the day prior was hazy at best, but generally non-existent. He sat up, a thick blanket pooling at his hips to expose his bare chest, and drank in his surroundings - he was in a bed, a large and comfortable one at that, and the warmth of a body was pressed against his leg. He looked at the person beside him and his lips curled upon seeing the beard and choppy dark hair belonging to the man who had changed his tire the previous day. Sam crawled out of the bed, taking care not to shift the mattress enough to wake the sleeping bare, and was relieved to find himself in lounge pants. He searched the dresser for a shirt, pulling on a thin gray henley, before padding softly down the stairs.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd been in a kitchen, faced with preparing his own breakfast. Sam riffled through the fridge and cabinets, setting out the fixings for an omelet. He was sliding it onto a plate when Alcide shuffled in, naked except for the black satin boxers riding low on his hips. Sam's breath hitched upon seeing the man's physique - he looked carved from marble, a living and breathing version of some ancient Greek hero. Sam self-consciously ran a hand over his own stomach, the henley bunching under his fingers.

Alcide yawned and poked his head in the fridge, removing the cartons of milk and orange juice. He poured himself a glass of juice and a bowl of cereal before sitting at the kitchen table. Once seated he kicked out the chair across from him, an unspoken invitation for Sam to join him. Sam obliged and they ate in silence, the sound of silverware scraping ceramic nearly deafening in the otherwise silent room.

Sam finished chewing a bite of omelet, eying the man across from him, before setting down his fork. "So-" he cut himself off upon Alcide looking up from his breakfast, only his eyes raising to meet Sam's.

"Nothing to talk about." Alcide took another bite of cereal with his eyes trained intently on the younger man, chewing slow and methodically. Sam caught himself staring at the shift of the man's jaw, subtle beneath the black scruff, and returned his gaze to his half-eaten omelet.

"Except about how the last thing I remember is sitting at that bar last night and then I woke up in your bed." He grabbed his fork again, using it to push his breakfast around his plate. He'd begun to lose his appetite.

"Alright," Alcide sat up in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "You tried pickin' up Jess and she turned you down. I offered to let you crash here for the night, gave you something to sleep in. I went to bed alone last night."

"So, we didn't..." Sam chanced a glance at Alcide.

"No." Alcide bridged a hand across his forehead, rubbing his temples with his thumb and middle finger. His palm covered the distinct disappointment in his eyes, though it wasn't enough to cover the rest of his face and Sam picked up on the nuanced expression. He dropped his hand to rest on the table and eyed the man across from him. "Almost, but no."

Sam's voice caught in his throat, cracking through his words. "A-almost? What does that even mean?"

"You really don't remember?"

"Did you see how much I drank yesterday? I'm surprised I remember my name."

Alcide paused to finish his juice and stood, placing the empty bowl and glass in the sink before grabbing the edge of the counter. He stared down at his hands. "I don't know what happened. You kissed me after we got home. I tried getting you to stay on the couch, I didn't want... but you kept coming upstairs. Said you didn't want to be alone, that you couldn't be."

"I, uh-"

"It's fine." Alcide turned, leaning back against the counter.

"No, I mean, you didn't finish. What didn't you want?" He was still pushing his omelet, now unappetizingly cool, around his plate. He was still unable to keep his eyes on the older man for more than a couple seconds.

Alcide smirked and shook his head, "I like to think I'm a good guy. And part of being a good guy isn't taking advantage of people, if you follow."

Sam dropped his fork across his plate and pushed it away. With his arms crossed on the table top he dropped his head, resting his chin on his wrist. His eyes flickered between Alcide and the window to the man's right. "So I wasn't just... you know, going upstairs to sleep?"

"No."

"I'm sorry."

Silence once again overtook the room, a thick tension settling between them. Alcide pushed his way toward the table, his desire to comfort the younger man fighting his more survivalist tendencies of remaining distant. Sam pulled his hands away as Alcide reached for the table, though he only grabbed the discarded plate. Guilt washed over Sam as he watched Alcide wrap the leftover omelet in cellophane, placing it in the refrigerator before loading the dishwasher with one cereal bowl, one spoon, and a dozen odd pieces that Sam himself had dirtied. His guilt was tinted with shame as he stared at the older man, each movement between the sink and the dishwasher rippling his muscles in a way that should have been illegal to watch.

Once finished with the chore, Alcide stood at Sam's side, saying, "I'll get you some real pants. Your car is still at Merlotte's," before heading back toward his bedroom. Sam had moved to the living room when Alcide returned, fully clothed, with a pair of dark washed jeans. He threw the denim toward Sam and waited in the foyer as he younger man changed. Sam tossed the lounge pants over the stair railing, pulled on his boots, and followed Alcide outside.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	5. Chapter 5

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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The drive to Bon Temps was longer than Sam had remembered; the deafening silence and his pounding head did not help. Alcide had only to take a single look to see his passenger's discomfort. Unsure of what to say, or more specifically unsure of whether he was willing to chance the negative reaction to what he wanted to say, Alcide decided to let the radio fill the cabin. As he slowly turned the volume knob, a classic rock station faded in partially through a track. Sam's heart dropped; the lyrics entered his ears sounding like Mick Jones, yet bounced around his head with Dean's wheel-smacking, head-banging, off-tune theatrics. He curled up against the door and pressed his forehead against the cool glass, a heavy sigh fogging up the window.

"Not feelin' too hot, huh?" Alcide turned to look at Sam, his eyes darting between his passenger and the road. Sam shook his head, unwilling to speak. His words had a propensity for betraying him. A pang of guilt or sadness or whatever else pierced his gut, a sharp pain that churned his otherwise sour stomach, and as Mick sang, "I'll take care of the two of us," Sam dry heaved against the door. Concern flashed across Alcide's eyes and he slowed the truck, pulling off on the shoulder of the dusty country road. "Need a moment?"

Sam nodded and nearly fell out of the truck as he pushed the door open. He dropped to his knees on the shoulder, fingers twisting in the tall grass, and purged not only his breakfast but the memories he had tried so hard to forget, to push back just long enough to become okay enough to cope. He wiped his mouth with the back of his arm, the sleeve of Alcide's henley darkening and sticking to his skin, before scooting back from his mess. He didn't want to stand, to leave that spot, until the warm and dizzy swarming behind his eyes subsided. The slam of a door brought Sam back from his daze. He watched Alcide round the cab and walk over, sitting less than an arm's length away.

"I take it Foreigner makes you ill," Alcide said with half a laugh, acknowledging the poor attempt at humor. Sam forced a smile for the man's sake.

"Something like that." Sam carded his hands through his hair, the long strands slipping smoothly through his fingers. "Does it ever get better?"

"What, the hangover?"

Sam smiled a bit more genuinely. "No, life."

Alcide leaned back, bracing himself on his hands, and rested his chin on his shoulder. "I suppose that depends on whether you want it to or not. Do you?"

Sam glanced over with round, sad eyes. "How could I not?"

"Take a look at your life and rethink your answer." Alcide sighed and looked out over the field before him, the sun still low enough behind the truck to cast long shadows into the distance. He didn't know a damn thing about Sam, but something was eating away at the kid. Something was tearing him into shreds in a visibly disheartening way.

Sam took the man's request to heart, mentally laying out the events of recent passing and sifting through them with a fine-toothed comb. Thoughts of Dean and Bobby swarmed him, each bringing on a more pleasant, farther reaching memory. He smiled upon recalling drinking beer at Bobby's, arguing with his brother about old school horror monsters. His change in demeanor did not go unnoticed by the man beside him.

"Sam."

Alcide's voice brought him back and reality sank in, heavy and cold and constricting the muscles in his chest. "Yeah?"

"So do you want it to get better?"

Sam took a moment, cocking his head to one side and chewing on his lower lip. He turned to the man beside him and said, "I honestly don't think it can."

Alcide rolled up onto his feet and stood, reaching out a helping hand which Sam graciously accepted. They re-entered the truck and continued to Bon Temps, with the radio turned off and five below the speed limit. The last thing Alcide wanted was the kid's stomach deciding it had been jostled enough to ruin the upholstery.

When they pulled into the Merlotte's lot, Alcide parked alongside the Impala. Sam hesitated to open the door, glancing over his shoulder at the goliath behind the steering wheel. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words weren't forthcoming. His teeth clicked as his lips snapped shut again.

With a white-knuckled grip at ten and two, Alcide wrung his hands across the leather wheel covering. He'd locked eyes with his passenger, watching the kid fumble for words. Something was keeping Sam's hand on the door handle, keeping him from jumping in his car and getting the Hell out of dodge.

"So, you, uh, feelin' alright to drive?" Alcide loosened his grip on the wheel.

"Yeah, I think. Probably park her somewhere and sleep off this hangover."

"You'll fry inside that tin can."

"I was fine yesterday."

"You can-"

"I don't want to be a burden. God knows I've been enough of one so far."

"Sam..." Alcide's eyes dropped for a moment, his brows furrowed. "It's fine. I gotta work here in a couple hours, so you can just crash. It's a safe neighborhood."

Sam smiled, taking his hand off the door handle. "You're putting a lot of faith in a guy you just met. Sure that's wise?"

Alcide returned the sentiment, a sly grin on his face. "You drive a pretty unique car 'round these parts. Think I couldn't find you if you pulled something? Places like this, everyone talks."

Sam's smile grew before he let himself out of the truck, grabbing the keys from under the floor mat of the Impala as he ducked behind the wheel. Dean would have shot him for not taking the keys with him, and he remembered fondly their past arguments over the car. With his mood raised, his stomach unapologetically empty, and an alternative station playing softly in the background, Sam followed Alcide down the winding drive back into the heart of Bon Temps. With the windows down, the fresh country air cleared his mind and he relaxed. For the first time since since leaving SucroCorp in the rearview, Sam didn't feel as though the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. He felt almost normal. Perhaps he hadn't been fair to the Pelican State.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	6. Chapter 6

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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The sun was setting by the time Alcide pulled into the driveway, parking behind the Impala. The scent of roasted potatoes flooded him as soon as he entered the house and, realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast, b-lined toward the kitchen. Sam had since changed back into the lounge pants and clean henley and was standing in front of the stove, poking at something in a deep saute pan with a pair of tongs. Alcide grabbed a beer from the fridge, popping off the cap and tossing it into the bin across the room. The soft clink of metal hitting plastic-lined metal caught Sam's attention and he turned, tongs still in hand, to see Alcide lowering himself into a chair at the table.

"Got hungry, hope you don't mind." Sam's grin was sheepish in it's smallness.

"Not as long as you're making some for me."

"Oh, uh..." Sam peered through the window in the oven door, frowned, and headed toward the refrigerator. Alcide leaned back in his chair, balancing it on to legs, and held the fridge door shut.

"Relax, kid." He took another swig from his beer before sitting the bottle on the table. "Go sit down, grab a beer. I'll finish up." Alcide made his way toward the oven, grabbing the tongs from Sam, before throwing open his cabinet doors. Sam sat across from where Alcide had been after grabbing a beer of his own, sipping it while watching the older man move around the kitchen like a certified chef. By the time Sam's chicken and potatoes were done, Alcide had thrown together some bright green conconction of rice and vegetables. Alcide noticed Sam staring and laughed, "What, don't eat green foods?"

"What the hell is it?"

Alcide dipped his spoon into the risotto and handed it across the table, "Fucking delicious, is what it is. Try some." Sam tentatively brought the spoon to his lips, his eyes flicking toward Alcide before taking the bite. His brows raised in pleasant surprise as he chewed. Alcide stole back his spoon and took a bite himself. "I could live off this stuff."

They didn't speak much while eating. There was a calm that had settled between them, as if the tension of that morning had never existed. In the back of his mind, though, Sam couldn't stop thinking about their conversation over breakfast. Had he actually kissed the man? For the life of him, Sam could not remember. He wondered how uncomfortable Al must have been, having his kindness returned with drunken sexual advances, and felt the tiniest pang of guilt. It disappeared once he recalled what else had been said, about not being one to take advantage. He watched the older man eat, lips wrapping around the spoon in a likely unintentional but definitely seductive manner. Sam wondered, if he kissed Alcide again, would the reaction change? He pushed the thought away as he bit into a large chunk of potato, thinking instead of all the ways he could self-diagnose, and then self-medicate, his current instabilities.

Sam waited in the living room as Alcide loaded the dishwasher, studying the photographs that hung on the walls. Or rather, the empty frames where photographs had once been. He turned to face the footsteps that had sounded behind him and frowned. "What happened to all your pictures?"

The question took Alcide off guard and he stumbled over himself, rubbing a hand across the nape of his neck. "I, well, I got rid of them all."

"And left the frames?" They were nice frames, though.

"Yeah. Just didn't like the photos anymore. Didn't want to look at them every time I passed through here."

Sam paused a moment before asking, "Ex-wife?"

"Fiance. We parted ways not too long ago." Alcide dropped onto the couch and kicked off his boots before crossing his ankles on the coffee table, his socked feet sliding against the veneered wood. "She did some pretty shitty stuff and it made me sick to look at her. But somehow, she's the one who walked out, who left me lookin' like the asshole. I dunno, man." A pause. "You ever been married?"

Sam winced at the memories of Jess and shook his head. "Nah. I was about to propose to my girl when, uh..." He couldn't bring himself to say she died, but couldn't lie on her, either. He let his voice fade away instead.

"She left you, too?"

"It's not like that. She left, but, you know. For good." Sam's jaw tightened and he turned away, went back to staring at the empty picture frames. It had been years, he'd gotten the revenge and justice due to him, but Jess still lived on in the gaping hole inside his chest. He was momentarily overwhelmed with the urge to drive out to California and visit her grave, to leave her a bouquet of flowers and lay beside her headstone, to catch her up on all the things that had gone wrong since he'd left her that night at Stanford.

"I'm sorry. Are you alright?"

Sam shook the hair from his eyes and turned back to Alcide with a fake, close-mouthed smile pastered on his face. "Yeah, of course. It's been years." He took a few steps toward the foyer and Alcide made quick work of standing, albeit remaining planted between the couch and coffee table.

"Heading out?"

Sam shook his head as he kept walking, padding across the hardwood floors with a quiet grace surprising of one so large. He returned a few minutes later with freshly brushed teeth, courtesy of a packaged toothbrush he'd found while snooping around that afternoon. Alcide had since sat back down. "Those potatoes made my mouth feel fuzzy. It was driving me nuts."

"I've got a spare toothbrush-" Alcide cut himself off upon seeing Sam's sly little grin, "Which you probably found earlier today. Okay." He laughed, "Find anything else of interest?"

"Not really. Mostly just tried to figure out how your TV works and took naps."

"I see. So, uh... I mean, I'm not saying you have to leave, but I'd have thought you'd be gone by now. I was surprised to see you were still here when I got home."

Sam shrugged and sat in the arm chair near the couch, kicking his feet up as it reclined. "Figured I'd leech you of all your hospitality and then run off in the middle of the night, taking all your coffee and breakfast foods," he said through a light chuckle.

"I'm serious, Sam. If you need a place to stay... I don't know what's been going on, but you'll have to stop running at some point. You'll have to turn around and face whatever is chasing you. At least long enough to get back on your feet."

Sam sighed and tucked his chin against his chest. "I've been running my entire life. I'm not even sure what's behind me anymore. This is the first time I've ever been alone - I don't even know where to begin."

Alcide grabbed the remote off the coffee table and flipped to the on demand section before tossing the controller onto Sam's lap. "You can start by picking a movie."

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	7. Chapter 7

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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The next morning Sam didn't wake until Alcide was rustling around the living room, getting ready for work. Sam sat up in his chair and rubbed his eyes before stretching, his back tense. He hadn't moved since falling asleep during the previous night's movie.

"G'morning'," Sam yawned, extending his legs over the chair's footrest.

"Mornin'. Hey, I was thinkin', you should come out on the job with me today. It'll give you something to do, be some easy cash."

"And do what, built a house?" Sam laughed. Digging graves was the extent of the manual labor he had ever been willing to do.

"Not a whole house, no. We're laying drywall today, may get started on painting the ground level. You can hold a brush, right?" Alcide tugged on his boots and stood in the doorway, watching his half-asleep guest think over the offer. "C'mon, kid. We'll stop for breakfast, my treat."

Sam was out of the chair and taking the stairs two at a time as soon as Alcide finished speaking. He came back down in jeans and a flannel - he'd washed his own clothes while Alcide had been out the previous day. He slipped into his boots and followed Alcide out to the truck, tying his laces on the way to the diner.

They reached the job site with bellies full of pancakes and extra time to spare. Alcide showed Sam around the house, explaining the processes behind the work ahead of them and demonstrating how to hang drywall. All in all, it seemed fairly simple. Sam frowned for a split second, unable to push from his mind that it's as if he and Dean had traded places. He just hoped that Dean wouldn't wait a year to show his face when... if... he got out of whatever situation he was in.

The frown hadn't made it past Alcide and he mirrored the expression. "You alright?"

Sam shook his head, hair fluttering like a walking shampoo advert. "Yeah, I'm fine. It's just, my brother used to do this stuff. I miss him."

"Did he, uh," Alcide paused to choose his words, "leave like the girl?"

Sam wanted to say no, wanted to tell the same lie he'd told Delmont, but he couldn't. He didn't want to lie to this man. "You know, I'm not even sure. He just up and disappeared, right from under my nose."

Alcide sat on a nearby saw horse, the metal creaking beneath his weight. "I take it you guys were close?"

"We've been traveling the states since I was twenty-two, just checking out everything there is to offer, yanno? He was all I had left."

"No other family?"

"Everyone else is dead, most of them for a long time."

They remained in silence until the rest of the crew arrived, though not but fifteen minutes later. Alcide introduced Sam to the site manager, pulling out enough charisma to fell even the most stubborn of crotchety old men, and the manager agreed to "try the kid out" for a few days. As they walked back toward the house, out of earshot from the others, Alcide spoke low near Sam's ear, "Just dig around in the toolbox if the boss pokes his head in. All he cares about is staying on schedule."

Aside from the two instances where the site manager stopped by to ask Alcide's advice, and through which Sam found out his side gig as a consultant, Sam mostly sat on a saw horse and held up the occasional sheet of drywall. It was mind-numbingly dull work, but it'd be easy money come the job's completion. And he really couldn't complain about the view, either.

It wasn't until they were driving back to Shreveport, when Alcide smiled and said, "Enjoy staring at my ass all afternoon?", that Sam realized just how perverse his thoughts had been during the course of the day.

"I, uh-" he stumbled over his words like a nervous child telling his first big lie.

"You really don't have a sense of humor, do you?"

"I resent that." Sam had recovered quickly from his stuttering mindlessness, his tone one of faux hurt. "I've got a great sense of humor, when jokes are actually funny."

"Christ, you're the type who looks forward to elections just for the political cartoons, aren't you?"

Sam stared out the window, his face deadpan. "I resent that, too." Alcide burst out laughing, slapping one hand on the steering wheel.

"You're a trip, kid."

They had pulled into Alcide's driveway when the older man asked, "So, interested in hitting up Merlotte's?"

"I think I'm about done drinking myself silly, honestly," Sam smiled as he got out of the truck, throwing the door shut before heading toward the front door.

"Then you can play DD. I'm too young to spend Friday nights at home." Alcide ran up behind Sam and snuck around him, unlocking the door before holding it open for his guest. "Ladies first."

Sam's sarcasm was deafening as he held out an arm, signalling Alcide to enter first, "Then by all means." Alcide smirked and rested a hand on Sam's lower back before pushing him through the doorway, his fingertips grazing the small strip of exposed skin above Sam's jeans. The younger man shivered at the contact as he stumbled into the house.

"Oh come on, you should make some friends. Bon Temps is full of good people."

"And all these "good people" just happen to be at the bar, am I right?"

"You're in the deep south, kid. Liquor is a requirement for a good time." Alcide stole up the stairs before Sam could reply, and not two minutes later was the shower running. Sam threw himself on the couch, eyes shut against the bright fluorescent light, and fell into the state of thoughtless oblivion that hovered just before sleep. He'd peek through one heavily lidded eye each time he heard what could have been Alcide coming back downstairs until he finally caught site of the man, dressed in nice jeans and a tucked in button down, stomping down the stairs. He felt like the under-dressed date for a princess making her grand entrance. He didn't blink until Alcide took the bottom step, standing expectantly in the foyer. "Wake up. There's beer to be drank and women to get turned down by.

"How could I ever pass that up." Sam languidly spun his legs over the edge of the couch and stood, hands pushing up off his thighs. "We're taking my car."

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	8. Chapter 8

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont (and a dude named Achaer who is extremely unimportant). Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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**TWO MONTHS LATER**

Sam and Alcide got back to Shreveport early in the afternoon - they'd spent all of 45 on site before their job was shut down, the new shopping center in Benton having lost it's funding. They had barely walked through the front door of Alcide's home before Sam was struck with, what he though was, a brilliant idea.

"Achaer said we weren't due back until Monday, right?" Sam's voice was laden with poorly concealed excitement. Alcide nodded, an eyebrow raised in vague disquiet. "Which means we have the rest of today, and then another three days, to just sit on our hands like a couple fools, right?" Alcide nodded again. "Let's go to Houston."

"As in Texas?" Alcide snorted in mild disbelief. He'd been lucky to settle in Shreveport without too much trouble from the local pack, the debacle with Debbie and Marcus excluded, and had no interest in pushing his luck with a Texan pack. They'd smell him from miles away and that wasn't a part of his life he was willing to share with Sam, wasn't a situation he was willing to subject a human to. "I'm not one for traveling."

"It's, what, four and a half hours from here? Come on, Seeds. Baby needs a nice, long drive. She's unhappy spending so much time parked in a driveway." Despite having made efforts in bottling up his memories of Dean and throwing them out to sea, when it came to the Impala, he felt as though he needed to fill his brother's shoes. Keep her clean, running smoothly, and feeling loved, and sometimes love came in the form of a 250 mile drive.

"I'm really not comfortable-"

"Alcide. Put on your big boy shorts and let's go have a little fun. We can be settled in at Bayou Place, eating swank-as-Hell food, before dark." The smile on Sam's face, the spark of desire in his eyes, was enough to make Alcide fold.

"I don't do boardwalk games or amusement park rides. That shit is for kids."

"Fine, that's fine," Sam hollered over his shoulder as he ran up the stairs, a massive smile splitting is face in two. He pulled a black duffel from the closet in the guest room and threw it on the bed before pulling shirts from the closet and pants from the dresser. He laid everything out beside the duffel and unzipped it, his humor failing upon seeing a silver flask and can of lighter fluid in the bag. He removed the two items, throwing them into the closet with enough force to leave dents that exposed the drywall, and leaned over the bed, fistfuls of bedding preventing him from throwing anything else. The rush of sadness, of self-loathing, came and went in seconds. Alcide was up the stairs and poking his head through the doorway as Sam began folding his clothing.

"What happened?" The concern in Alcide's voice was enough to make the younger man turn and give him a sad smile.

"It was nothing. Got a little carried away tossing some stuff back in the closet."

Alcide entered the room and glanced between Sam and the closet, immediately noticing the two fist-sized holes in the wall. A flask and metal tin were the only objects on the closet floor. "What the fuck, Sam." He wasn't angry, rather forcefully curious. Sam saw Alcide looking at the things he'd thrown and frowned.

"Dean's."

With that one word, Alcide understood and there was no need for further questions. He walked to the bed and began folding Sam's shirts, three white tee's and three thin flannels. He laid the shirts in the duffel, packing around the jeans Sam had already placed inside, before heading to the master suite. Alcide didn't own a set of suit cases and instead emptied a duffel of his own. Assorted items from his days working for Russell Edgington scattered across his bed and, hearing Sam approach, he threw back the comforter to cover the stakes and silver chain. Sam stood in the doorway and watched Alcide pack, haphazardly tossing clothing into the bag. Apparently he'd exhausted his ability to fold on Sam's clothing.

"I'm, uh, sorry about your wall," Sam said after Alcide had shouldered the duffel and turned to face him. He ground the toe of one boot into the floor.

"You can fix it when we get back. But you're the one who wanted a fun weekend, so cheer the fuck up." Alcide grinned and cuffed Sam's shoulder before pushing past him and down the stairs. Sam remained in the doorway, watching the older man disappear. Alcide called up from the foyer, "If you're drivin', get your ass in the car. Don't give me time to change my mind." Sam gave a small smile to the empty hall, raising only one corner of his mouth, before following after the older man. Alcide was locking the front door when Sam took the man's duffel, tossing both in the backseat before sliding behind the wheel.

With the sun directly overhead and a long drive ahead of them, Sam and Alcide sped out of Shreveport as if they had demons on their tails. An oldies station blared the southern rock both had grown up on, the radio just loud enough to drown out the wind rushing in through the open windows and any attempts at conversation. Sam stopped for gas just before entering Texas and, next they parked the car, it was at the Magnolia Hotel. Alcide went in to book the room ("I still don't have a bank account, Seeds, what makes you think I've got a credit card? I'll buy dinner.") and Sam shouldered both duffels, opened the trunk, and loaded his bag with what easily concealable weapons he could grab. An extra pocket knife, a sports bottle of holy water, a canister of sea salt and a couple matchbooks. He slid a silver necklace over his head, untucked his hair from beneath the chain, and slammed the trunk shut. It had been over two months since he'd hunted anything, but Houston was a big city. It didn't hurt to come prepared.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	9. Chapter 9

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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Alcide was waiting in the lobby, card keys in hand, by the time Sam entered the hotel. They rode up to the third floor, walked through the maze of hallways, until they reached room 367. Alcide unlocked the door and held it open while Sam entered, who dropped both duffels into the open closet on his way to the nearest bed. He threw himself onto it, landing face down on the impossibly soft mattress, and sighed loudly. Alcide sat on the edge of the bed closest to the window, bouncing on the mattress lightly, before falling back with his arms stretched above his head.

"What's on the agenda for tonight?" Alcide's voice was soft, stuck in the place between sleep and simple relaxation.

Sam pulled his phone out and checked the time before dropping it on the bed beside him. His voice was muffled by the mattress, "Drunk and disorderly conduct. I just have to - oh God, this bed is phenomenal, I never want to leave."

"I swear, if we drove 250 miles just to stay in a hotel room, I will kill you."

"Oh hush. Let's go find a bar." Sam rolled off the bed and grabbed his duffel before heading into the restroom. He checked the bag's pockets for whatever Dean may have left in them and grinned upon seeing a small hex bag. With a knife on each side, the smaller cozied up inside his wallet, and a book of matches tucked into his flannel, Sam left the restroom. Alcide was by the door, one hand poised on the handle. Both card keys were poking out of the older man's jeans and Sam tucked the hex bag into the pocket where the card he removed had just been.

Alcide glanced from Sam's hand to his face, the kid's expression one of sly innocence. "You could have just asked."

"And where's the fun in that?"

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A few hours and multiple failed attempts to pick up chicks on Sam's behalf later, the boys were wandering the streets of Houston. A couple pitchers of beet and a handful of shots between them had lessened both their reservations about running into something that goes bump in the night. They were roughly five blocks from the hotel when Alcide tensed, grabbing Sam's sleeve and pulling the younger man close to his side. He smelled another werewolf, his nostrils burning with the scent of another wolf's territory.

"What are you doing? Lemme go." Sam struggled weakly against Alcide's grip, a combination of alcohol and enjoying being so close to the man getting him no where. Regardless, his shirt would have torn before Alcide loosened his grip.

"Sam, shut up. Just stop and shut the fuck up." Alcide paused to lean against a nearby wall, nestled between the two bay windows of some store's facade. He breathed in deeply before releasing a sigh.

"Alcide..." Sam wasn't sure what had caused the older man to get so nervous, but Sam knew he could handle it. Whatever it was, he had dealt with worse. There was no easy way to tell the man that he hunted the things too spooky for most to even think about.

"Get back to the hotel, Sam. I'll meet up with you soon." His voice was a deep growl, full of gravel and menace.

"Tell me what the Hell is going on first! What, did you not want to come here because someone's after you? A pissed off ex or something? Do you owe someone money? Just tell me what's wrong."

"I can't. Just go." When Sam made no move to leave, Alcide grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him back toward the sidewalk. "You need to go, right now." The other wolves, there were definitely more than one, grew nearer. And with them grew the urgency in Alcide's eyes. Sam frowned and started off for the hotel, stopping after turning a corner a block away. He peered around the side of the building and watched Alcide pace the sidewalk, not stopping until approached by a small group of three, maybe four, people. Alcide towered above them all, a dark silhouette against an urban landscape lit only by flickering yellow lamps.

From his hiding place, Sam watched the interaction go from calm conversation to raging screams in less than a minute. The volume alone was enough to make him flinch. The group's behavior, from their stances to the way they hovered around the apparent leader, seemed almost animalistic. He could have sworn he heard faint growing.

The group disappeared into the long shadows cast by the distant street lights and Alcide followed, his massive body visibly tense even from a block away. Sam was tempted to turn the corner and run after him, save him from whatever trouble he'd gotten himself into, but thought better of it. He wasn't prepared for that sort of thing, and he wasn't drunk enough to try it anyway.

Sam pulled out his phone and accessed the GPS, using it to find his way back to the hotel. He was stripped down to his boxers and nestled in bed long before Alcide came trudging in, his footsteps heavy in his anger. Sam peeked over the edge of his comforter, all the blankets tucked under his chin, and let a sleepy frown creep over his face.

"Did I wake you?" Alcide asked with unapologetic gruffness.

"No." Sam shifted up on his pillows, the blankets pooling around his waist. He missed Alcide's traveling gaze. "What happened back there?"

Alcide toed off his boots and removed his shirt, two long tears in the fabric from shoulder to waist. When he turned to tuck the shirt in his duffel, Sam noticed the shallow gashes cutting diagonally across his shoulders. Sam sat up completely, suddenly awake, and scooted toward the edge of the mattress.

"No, really, what the fuck happened? Your back..." He made no effort to hide his concern.

Alcide was quick to stand and face Sam, wincing as he pressed back against the wall. "It's nothing. Just go back to sleep, alright?"

"No, God damn it, I won't go back the fuck to sleep. Not until- what are you doing?"

Alcide had begun walking toward Sam's bed, his face stoic and unreadable. He was pissed off, absolutely enraged that the alpha had gotten a hit on him, and meant to vent the best way he knew how. He'd taken note of Sam's too-long stares and bashfully downcast eyes more times over the past two months than he could have kept track of. He reached the foot of the bed and stepped up onto it, kneeling at the edge.

"You can't tell me you don't have secrets of your own." His words rolled out like crushed velvet, almost tangibly soft. He crawled up the bed, stopping with his knees on either side of Sam's waist. The younger man leaned back, bracing himself on his elbows, his face turned up to meet Alcide's eyes.

"But-" Alcide leaned down and stole the rest of Sam's words with harshly pressed lips.

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**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	10. Chapter 10

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

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Sam was panting, his lungs burning for air, by the time Alcide pulled away. He grabbed the older man by the shoulders and lifted himself, short nails digging into the unmarked skin of Alcide's back. The man was burning hot to the touch. After a deep inhale he dove back into the kiss, all teeth and crushed lips.

Moments later Alcide had the younger man flat on his back, one massive hand buried in long brown strands of hair. He pulled Sam's head back and to the left, leaning down to leave bites along Sam's jaw line and neck. Sam exhaled, his breathe stuttering, as Alcide nipped the sensitive cords in his neck. The older man dragged his tongue across the reddening skin before trailing down Sam's chest. He got so far as the chain hanging just below the kid's collarbones before cursing in pain, his tongue raw and bleeding. He recoiled from the man beneath him, stumbling onto the floor and quickly backing away until the cuts on his shoulders pressed against the front door.

Sam stared, his eyes wide with bewilderment, as Alcide receded as far from the bed as possible. He glanced around the room, eyes resting on the shirtless behemoth before eventually noticing the smear of blood across his necklace and anti-possession tattoo. Sam's attention shot back to Alcide, whose lips were terribly bloody, and the missing puzzle pieces of his host's past began falling into place. All the growling when angry, the constant feverish warmth radiating from his skin at all times, the gases on his back, the group - no, pack - who had approached that evening... Sam had but a single word to say.

"Werewolf."

Alcide's eyes sank to the floor, the disgust in Sam's voice making him feel all of two feet tall. "Sam..."

Sam sat up, holding a blanket across his chest. "No, Alcide. Just no. After everything I've been through, and you're a God damned werewolf... I'm a hunter, damn it. I've spent my entire life killing monsters. And yo expect me to be okay with this? You expect me to not be absolutely revolted?" Sam couldn't look at Alcide any longer, couldn't bear to accept the man's beastly reality.

"Sammy, please-"

"You do NOT get to call me that! Especially not you."

"Just let me explain-"

"There is nothing you could ever say to make this alright. The last time I got involved with a werewolf, I had to pull a bullet through her heart. The last time I trusted a demon, I lost everything. I trusted that demon with my life, morrow importantly with Dean's life, and it got both of us killed."

"You're not dead, Sam..." Alcide did well in masking his confusion as concern.

"There are a lot of things you don't know about this world. There are things far worse than you, and I've killed damn near all of them. You wouldn't dare to fuck with me if you knew. Or send your little freak friends to do your dirty work, either. I know how your kind thinks."

Alcide was offended, but more than anything he was hurt, and his tone showed as much, "You're a fucking fool, Sam Winchester. If you honestly think that I kill people, or God forbid that I would ever hurt you, you should just leave. Take your shit and stay far, far away from my parish. I'm not the only thing lurking in the dark, but I am the kindest."

They exchanged heated glares, Sam only when he chanced to look at the werewolf, and a tension grew between them nearly to the point of bursting. It pushed them apart, kept each in their separate corner. Both knew crossing the other to be suicide.

Alcide didn't look away from the younger man, he hardly blinked, until the tension faded. He watched Sam relive his past, more than just what he had disclosed. Alcide had gone through a phase after Debbie, dealt with a constant yearning for her. The rage over her death hadn't helped, but when the rage disappeared, so, too, had his desire for his mate. He had gained the opportunity to start anew. Sam, though, he hadn't been so lucky. Whatever was eating at him, whatever was clawing at his mind, it was old and it was permanent. It was enough for Alcide to forgive what had been said, and the tones that were used. He no longer saw a man in fight or flight - the aw a man who needed comfort.

A few small steps were all it took to break Sam from his negative head space. The only emotion on his face was misery; thankfully there was no fear. Alcide couldn't have handled Sam being afraid of him.

"Can we talk now?" Alcide was still a couple feet bed, his steps slowing the closer he got.

"We already talked."

"No," he paused and heaved a sigh, exhaling the weight of the world, "Not enough. Not until you realize I'm not one of those monsters - honestly, Sam, I should be the one curled up in bed, concerned for my life. I'm a werewolf and I chose not to kill. I'm no more harmful tab a lap dog." He forced a smile for Sam's sake, though it was impossible to be genuine when waved with someone in such pain.

"I can't... I can't trust the wolf inside you. The last time I tried, I nearly got my heart ripped out. And then I had to kill that poor woman, I HAD to, Seeds. And I can't go through that again. I can't kill the only person who has given a shit since Dean died. I can't..."

Alcide sat on the edge of the mattress, the corner furthest from Sam. "Can I show you something?"

"What could you possibly have to show?"

Alcide bit the inside of one cheek and slipped out of gist remaining clothes, shifting into an enormous timber wolf. He laid on he corner bed, tongue lolling out of a dopey dog grin.

As soon a the shift registered, Sam had pushed himself as far back against the head board as possible. All he could think of was Madison, the fear she had of herself and of what she could wind up doing, and how devastating it had been to shoot her in cold blood.

The wolf crawled up the bed, scooting on his tummy, until close enough Sam could have pet him. He rolled onto his back, wriggling unto a comfortable position, and let out a heartbreaking whine. Sam could have believed it to be a domesticated dog, especially given the display of submission.

"You're... different. I've never known weres to... I mean, any of this. What are you?"

The wolf growled in response, the noise almost adorable in it's lack of intimidation. Sam hesitated in reaching out a hand, his fingers hovering above the white fluff of its chest. He finally gave a few soft pats before running his fingers through the long fur. The wolf shifted beneath Sam's hand, which he drew back without thought, and rolled back on its belly. It stretched out its neck, reaching forward to give Sam's hand a lick. Sam took notice of the raw stripe across its tongue and the blood-matted fur across its back.

"Did it hurt? I mean, your wounds, did they get torn open when you shifted?"

Alcide returned to his normal state and its lack of modesty. He remained laying on his stomach, grinning when Sam threw the blanket over the older man's bare ass.

"Yes, it hurt. It always hurts. And you know what I all weres are the same. This," Alcide leaned forward and bit down on Sam's forearm, just hard enough to break the skin, and the younger man went completely rigid, not even moving to breathe, "It won't hurt you. You won't become ."

Sam released the air from his lungs in a long sigh. "Warning would have been nice."

* * *

**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	11. Chapter 11

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

* * *

Sam threw the duffels in the back seat of the Impala before leaning against the door, staring at the screen on his phone. His thumb hovered over the call button, Dean's number pulled up. He shook his head and tapped the button, the screen flashing "calling Lars Ulrich", and brought the phone to his ear. He lost track of how many times it rang before voice mail picked up, filling his ear with his brother's voice. _You shouldn't have this number. But, if it's an emergency, call 785-555-0179_.

"Hey, Dean. I, uh," Sam paused for a few seconds, unsure of why he'd even called in the first place. He chocked it up to wishful thinking. "Once you get back, I've got a job in Houston for us. I found something you'd be interested in. The things we're used to seeing, everything we thought we knew about this line of work, it's changed. We haven't even scratched the surface on this one. I don't know whether it's just a hybrid, or whether it's an entirely new species, but I'll know soon. I hope you get this. I miss-" an automated voice interrupted him, giving the options of re-recording or deleting the message. Sam deleted it before pocketing his phone and pushing his hair back from his face, the long strands slipping between his fingers and falling back into place.

Alcide rounded the corner of the hotel and approached the car, his long gait covering ground quickly despite his leisurely pace. He leaned against the passenger side door and crossed his bare arms on the sun-warmed roof. It was still too early for the metal to be blisteringly hot to the touch. "Over Houston yet?"

Sam looked across the roof and smiled, though his eyes didn't share the sentiment. "I was over Houston two days ago."

They stopped at a gas station outside the city, Sam filling the tank while Alcide ran in for snacks. He returned with with everything from honey buns to beef jerky, along with two bottles of water. Once back in the car Sam dug through the bag, his face showing his disappointment in the selection. Alcide set a second bag on Sam's lap, pleased to see the younger man's face crack a small smile. Sam pulled out an apple and took a bite as he pulled back onto the road. Alcide tore into a honey bun, the breakfast of champions, and reclined in his seat. Maybe it was the inner wolf, but he'd never understand Sam's love of rabbit food.

* * *

Shreveport had remained the same during their trip to Houston, but the city felt different. A calm had settled, blanketing the sounds of daily life into muffled whispers. Compared to the Texan metropolis, where screaming on the streets and sirens in the distance were the soundtrack, the little Louisiana city seemed unnaturally quiet. But for the first time in years, Sam felt like he was returning home. It was a strange sensation for a man who had grown up and lived the majority of his adult life in motels across the continental forty-eight. Walking through the front door of Alcide's home, the bags slung over his shoulder, Sam let out a content sigh. Alcide glanced back at him, a small smile on his face.

"It was your idea to leave, as you'll recall."

"Shut your mouth." Sam grinned before dropping the duffels in the foyer and grabbing Alcide by the waist, resting his cheek against the larger man's back. The warmth radiating from the were was intoxicating. Alcide reached over his shoulder and ran a hand through the younger man's hair, the long strands slipping through his fingers like sand.

"We both know that's something you don't actually want," Alcide turned to face Sam, his shirt bunching under the younger man's arms. His hand found it's way back into Sam's hair, loosely gripping it by the roots, tilting the younger man's head slightly back so they were eye to eye. Alcide's lips parted as if to speak, but he remained silent for a few moments, the corners of his lips dropping into a frown. "We're okay, right?"

"How do you mean?"

"I mean after last night. We haven't really discussed-"

Sam raised a finger to Alcide's mouth, pressing it against his lips. "If there were something to discuss, we would discuss it. But we're finally on the same page, so I don't see the need." Alcide considered what Sam said before licking the Winchester's finger, which he immediately drew back and wiped clean on his shirt, his brows furrowed with an amused frown.

"You can't just glaze over what was unearthed last night. You found out I'm a werewolf, I found out you're a hunter, and by all accounts we should be trying to kill each other. You were so upset when you figured it out - you can't be okay with this, not so soon, not when there's so much you still don't know."

Sam released Alcide's waist and entered the living room, settling himself on the couch, before responding. "Then enlighten me. Tell me what I don't know. What is there that could possibly make any of this any easier to handle? I'm trying, Alcide. I'm trying to get past it. But I can't get past it if you keep bringing it up."

"Then let's bury the hatchet, once and for all. I tell you about being a wolf, you tell me about being a hunter. You aren't the only one trying to cope right now." Alcide met Sam's eyes and saw a hint of realization in them, a disappearance of the self-absorbed thoughts that only little Sammy Winchester had the right to be upset. "Deal?"

Sam nodded, his face solemn. He supposed Alcide deserved to know what he was living with, or at the very least about the arsenal in Baby's trunk and why it was there. "I'm still not ready to talk about Dean."

"There has to be more to your past than your brother."

Sam paused with downcast eyes. "You'd be surprised."

* * *

**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	12. Chapter 12

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity behind this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris**

* * *

Alcide descended the stairs, having changed into an off-white henley and thin flannel pants, and sat across the room from the younger man. He watched the Sam card his hands through his hair, hazel eyes cast down at his lap. "You want me to start?" Sam looked up, his expression expectant and lips shut tight.

"'Round these parts, you don't get turned into a werewolf, you're born as one. The bite of the wolf is nothing but legend, one my kind started to keep humans at bay. We don't kill them, but they sure as hell have always loved killing us. With me so far?" Sam nodded, leaning forward with his elbows rested on his knees. If nothing else, he was attentive.

"I spent a lot of time in Mississippi before coming back to Shreveport. My pack worked for Russell, the former vampire King. He paid us in V, and it seemed like I was the only one who wasn't addicted."

"What's "V"?" Sam's head cocked to the side, his eyebrows raised.

"Vampire blood." Sam's face paled, but if Alcide noticed he chose not to acknowledge it. "We got a lot of fangbangers here in town, but I shy away from them. Debbie... she was an addict. Recovering, for a while, but she got back on the shit and it got her killed. Anyway, Debbie and I left our pack in Jackson and settled here in Shreveport. We were lone weres, a two-wolf pack, and life was great for a while. We only turned when we wanted to, when we needed to run through the forest with the wind in our faces. We lived a normal life - I helped Dad run a contracting business for a while. It's how I got into it."

"You've never mentioned your dad before."

"Neither have you.  
"What I'm trying to say is, I'm not that much different than you. I'm warmer to the touch, I run a hell of a lot faster, and I can still smell the leather interior of the Impala on your skin. That's about it. I won't tear out anyone's heart or chew on the furniture when I'm teething, and I don't mark my territory by pissing on things. I'm generally harmless. Couldn't hurt a fly."

"Feel better, getting all that off your chest?"

Alcide stared at Sam, his eyes narrowed. "This wasn't about me, Sam. I'm trying to put you at ease. I'm trying to make this okay for you."

"We're fine, alright? The moment you bit me and nothing happened... I've handled worse."

"Then tell me about it, because the only thing I know of that's worse than a werewolf is a vampire."

"Vampires aren't anything special, in the grand scheme of things. I mean-" Sam took a moment, considering which of the multiple disastrous creatures in this world were the most believable. "I'm sure you already know about the other types of shifters, but they're not the only creatures of myth that walk among us. Ghosts, spirits, black-eyed demons, those are the least of our issues. Every fairytale you've ever read? Every piece of folk lore, every legend, religious mythos? Everything but unicorns and Nessie are real, and even Nessie we're not so sure about."

"You can't be serious. I knew about witches and fairies, but-"

"If you can't even believe that, then you'll think I'm out of my damn mind for what comes next."

"No, I believe you." Their eyes met, held captive in unblinking glances, for many long seconds. Eventually Sam stood and joined Alcide on the loveseat, his eyes still locked on the deep brown of the older man's.

"When I said that trusting a demon got me - no, Dean and I - killed, I meant it. I drank this demon's blood, I sucked it out of her veins, thinking that I could save the world and I only ended up ruining it. But Dean and I, we've both died. We've been to Hell. To Heaven. We've called upon Angels, fought for them, killed them. My father sold his soul to Lucifer to save Dean's life, and Dean sold his to bring me back to life the first time I died, and I repaid that by accepting my fate as Lucifer's vessel." Sam stopped to gauge Alcide's reaction, but his face was impassive. When he made no move to speak, Sam started up again. "I have literally been the devil, Alcide. I have been the poster child for ultimate evil. And that's not even the worst part. After skirting the apocalypse, dealing with the Four Horsemen and everything, we were plagued with Leviathan. Le-fucking-viathan! Even I can't believe this shit."

Sam searched Alcide's face for something, some reaction, and came up empty-handed. He stood and brushed the hair from his face, eyes rolling in disbelief. "If you think I'm full of shit, just say so. God knows it won't be the first time I've heard it."

"Sam, stop. It's a lot to take in." Alcide reached up, his hand resting on Sam's forearm. "It's a lot more than I thought it would be. When you said you were a hunter, I thought you just meant, you know, running around chasing ghosts and Bigfoot. And if that demon blood is anything like V... Jesus Christ, Sam, I've seen what that shit does to someone. It ruins your life, and every life around you, and I can't handle being around an addict again-"

"I'm not an addict." Sam's face hardened, Alcide's comment far too similar to things his brother had said a few years back.

"That's a small relief. But all this devil worship shit? Selling souls? And I don't even know what a Leviathan is, so I'll ignore that bit for now. You're not talking about monsters anymore, Sam. You're talking about things powerful enough to, excuse the pun, put the fear of God into millions of people without ever once showing their faces. That's above my pay-grade, for damn sure."

"Maybe... maybe I should go for a while? I guess it's seeming pretty ridiculous now, how upset I got last night."

"Not ridiculous, no. Color me excited that I bit the Devil and lived to tell the tale." Alcide cracked a small smile, his eyes crinkled in the corners. Sam was on the verge of screaming, his body tense at the memories of Hallucifer, and pressed his thumb into the scar on his palm for nostalgia's sake. Alcide's smile faded at the pain written on the younger man's face and stood beside him, resting a hand on Sam's shoulder. "I'm sorry, that was thoughtless."

"Alcide..."

"You don't have to leave, if you don't want to. We can just lay on the couch, watch movies until we pass out, and figure out all of this later."

Sam smiled, lips splitting a fraction. "You're sure I don't creep you out?"

"Nah, you've still got nothing on Russell. Whatever you did, whatever you've been, I refuse to believe you would have made the same choices knowing then what you know now."

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, after all."

* * *

**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring it, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks, dolls.  
Chelsea**


	13. Chapter 13

**The only things that belong to me are the insanity of this pairing and a redneck named Delmont. Sam/Dean/Castiel belong to Eric Kripke, Alcide/everyone else to Charlaine Harris.**

* * *

The next morning came and went, leaving Sam and Alcide curled up on the living room couch with the television softly selling weight loss pills. Alcide awoke first, his neck and back stiff from sleeping beneath the slightly smaller, though still enormous, man. He pulled an arm free from beneath himself and, after the pins and needles subsided, ran his fingers through Sam's hair. He never tired of touching those soft brown strands. It wasn't long before Sam stirred, his fist nearly catching Alcide's face as he stretched, and glanced down at the sleepy werewolf beneath him.

"Good morning, Mr. Herveaux."

Alcide flicked his gaze toward the nearest window and shook his head. "I think we missed morning."

"Hmm." With some effort and a helping hand, Sam crawled off the couch and made his way toward the kitchen. He started a pot of coffee, yawning as steam rose toward the ceiling, and leaned back against the counter. As he waited on the French roast he threw his head back, hair grazing the bare skin between his shoulder blades (_When did I lose my shirt?_), and thought back on the previous day. Had he and Alcide really had that conversation? Had he really told the older man about his stints in Heaven and Hell? And what kind of man was Alcide to actually believe him, to not immediately throw him in the back of the truck and drop him off at the nearest mental institution? "Played that game before; it didn't help much."

"What d'ya say?" Alcide shuffled into the kitchen, grimacing at the cold tile under his bare feet.

Sam's head shot back up and he looked at Alcide with wide, surprised eyes. He cracked a small grin and shook his head. "It's nothing, Seeds. Nothing at all. Taking your coffee black?"

"I always do."

* * *

Sam backed the Impala into the garage with Alcide's help; the front bumper barely clearing the path of the automatic door. There was just enough room to squeeze behind the car to unlock the trunk, and with the lid raised Sam opened the hatch to his (_No, it's still ours. Not mine, ours._) mobile arsenal. "Alright, come on over." Sam grabbed the brass knuckles and slid them onto his hand, repeatedly clenching his fist around the cool metal. Of all the contents of that trunk, the knuckles were the one thing Sam had never had opportunity to use. They were, in retrospect, a fairly silly addition to the monster ganking toolbox.

Alcide took note of Sam's new accessory and laughed, "At least give me a hint. Did I buy the wrong coffee again?" It took the younger man a moment, but he chuckled while returning the weapon to its hooks. He went through each item, fingers glossing over them one by one, reminiscing about how the job used to be.

"We mostly used the shotguns at first. For a long time, actually. Filled the shells with rock salt and adios ghosts. Worked on other spirits, demons, Hellhounds. You know, all those types. And this!" Sam reached the book that held the exorcism he'd long since memorized, "I remember reading this book religiously after Je- after I left Stanford. I can recite it backwards. It actually saved our asses one time," he broke out into a dimpled smile, unlike any Alcide had yet seen, and it gave the older man a unique understanding of his young house guest. When Sam had implied his history was unabashedly tangled with his brother's, it was now obvious how true that was. "I'll tell you about that later. Oh, and over here," Sam's smile faded as he raised Ruby's knife from it's slot, "this is from the demon who got us killed. It's one of our greatest weapons, one of the greatest in existence. Gank a demon with this thing and they die. We wound up using it on her. It's poetic, you know?"

"That's some morbid poetry."

"All the best is. So what affects you aside from silver?"

"That eager to get rid of me? How thoughtful." Alcide cuffed Sam's shoulder and leaned over the trunk, using a wooden stake to sift through the abundance of white metals. "Can never be too careful. Silver hurts like a bitch, but it's not fatal. Usually. The wounds don't heal until the silver is gone, and even then it takes forever. I'm still tasting blood from licking that damn necklace of yours."

"So silver bullet to the heart?"

"Normal bullet to the heart would do it."

"Can you bleed out?"

"Can you?"

"Gotcha. Sorry about the whole necklace thing, you know. Don't think I'd mentioned that yet..."

Alcide shrugged and stood up straight, the stake still in hand. He tossed it in the air a few times before throwing it at the garage door. The wood punched through the aluminum and clattered on the asphalt outside. Sam stared, bewilderment etched on his face, at the hole left by the stake.

"Holy shit, Seeds."

He shrugged again before opening the garage door and fetching the stake, which had rolled halfway down the driveway, stopped only by the rear wheel of his truck. He jogged back to the Impala and replaced it in the trunk. "It's got good balance."

"Where did you-"

"You work for a Vampire King long enough, you learn a few tricks to keep yourself safe. It's a nice collection, Sam, but let's hope you don't have to use it."

* * *

That evening the men were upstairs sifting through the dresser for a change of clothes. Something nice without seeming too put together. A casual sort of, "well damn, he cleans up well." For once it was Sam's idea to head to Merlotte's for drinks, and Alcide would be remiss to deny the kid a date with a bottle of Jagermeister.

Sam slid into a pale blue button down, forgoing an undershirt, and dark washed jeans that were close to but not quite uncomfortably tight around the ankles. He kept glancing at the full-length mirror hanging on the closet door, twisting at the waist, taking half-steps forward then back again. "I realize I'm going to a bar with another dude, but I still think these pants are a little tight. That's really not what I'm going for here."

"What, you gonna try to pick up Jess again?"

"Who? No-"

"The redhead you were hitting on last time. Her name is Jess."

"I don't remember her."

"Whatever. You look fine. Let's go." Alcide had thrown on a v-neck under leather jacket ensemble the moment they'd decided to head into Bon Temps. He stood in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, "You can do your makeup in the car, Samantha."

"Remember the trunk the next time you want to call me Samantha," the younger man said with the slightest hint of a promise, though he never once looked away from the mirror. "I'm still not sure about these jeans."

Alcide grabbed Sam by the shoulders and guided him into the hall, down the stairs, out the front door and down the driveway. He doubled back to lock up the house before opening Sam's door, over-exaggerating a flourished bow while saying, "My lady, your chariot awaits."

"I **will** shoot you. Right between the eyes." The grin Sam fought to hide behind his idle threat showed slightly, a subtle curl of his lips.

Alcide caught the younger man's bluff and stepped up into the driver's side, sliding toward the middle console and leaning across until his lips grazed Sam's ear. "Big talk for a man wearing skinny jeans. If you're lucky I'll help you peel them off later."

* * *

**Comment, critique, suggest story devices or other characters to bring in, whatever else you can think of. I want your input!**

**Thanks dolls,  
Chelsea**


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